


Empty Spaces

by cassieoh



Series: And After [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Healing, Kissing, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Fall (Good Omens), and what it means to kiss when you've not been able to for so long, but in a "person healing from having been in a really low place" kinda way, electron cloud metaphors that i refuse to apologize for, like a serrano level, mildy spicy, soft, some mild self-loathing on Crowley's part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25136812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh
Summary: He never meant to Fall and now it feels like he can’t. Potentiality bound up in the moment before the rollercoaster plummets, the tension before the sapling snaps, the—(no knowledge of the rest of the series required, Guess the Author, round #2 "NGK and other noises")
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: And After [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1430776
Comments: 13
Kudos: 73
Collections: SOSH - Guess the Author #2 NGK and Other Noises





	Empty Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> written for the GTA game in the soft omens server, prompt "NGK and other noises" 
> 
> <3

“Are you sure?” Crowley smiles because _of course_ Azirpahale feels the need to check-in. It’s so blessed typical. 

“Course,” he murmurs, half-muffled by the fabric that covers Aziraphale’s collarbone. “Are you?” 

“I have never been more sure of anything,” a rough kiss to his forehead, fingers gentle on the nape of his neck, “I want to experience all there is to experience with you, Crowley.” 

And that’s…. That’s a lot and Crowley is already feeling fairly overwhelmed by the scent of detergent on 200-year-old fabric. So, he does the only thing he can and steals a quick kiss before delving back to the place where Aziraphale’s neck meets his shoulder. 

Crowley tilts his head and presses closer, delighting in the smooth rasp of skin on skin as the tip of his nose traces the veins from Aziraphale’s clavicle to the divot below his ear, pausing to breathe deeply. Aziraphale smells like sunshine and yeast. He’s been baking again, working through the cottage’s overwhelming collection of cookbooks. He smiles against Aziraphale’s skin, the very edges of dandelion-soft hair tickle Crowley’s mouth and he abandons skin entirely to chase that bliss. 

“Ohhh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes out, head tilting to the side and back. His hands shift to Crowley’s hips, tucking him closer to his own. The universe is 99.99999% empty space and sometimes Crowley feels as if he contains more than his fair share of yawning, echoing emptiness while Aziraphale’s been allotted an extra portion of visceral, luxurious solidity. Sometimes, when he’s feeling uncharitable, he resents that. He’s always searching, reaching for something to fill the charged and empty places, hoping that the next sip of champagne or rush of speed might be the thing to do it, to suffuse the gap between the nuclei and the electrons always excited to higher and higher states, climbing, climbing and never falling back into a stable cloud. 

He never meant to Fall and now it feels like he _can’t_. Potentiality bound up in the moment before the rollercoaster plummets, the tension before the sapling snaps, the— 

“My love.” Words are nothing more than shaped waves of pressure, emptiness pressed to emptiness pushing against the soap-bubble barrier of electrons in the ear of a corporation always designed to fail. Vibration, excitement, movement— traveling across the void between them and it’s all too much because Crowley has wished for the aspic to move in that way, to form that particular pattern of compression and rarefaction and he’d never thought it would actually— 

The hands on his hips move to his face (and they’re really not touching him at all, nothing is, nothing ever is, oh _stars_ he’s so _empty_ ). There are thumbs brushing the damp places and he cannot help the wordless noise of wanting that escapes. 

Aziraphale holds him close, closer, closer and, when he kisses his forehead again, the benediction fills him with light and he wonders if the emptiness was worth it if it means there’s space in him for _this._


End file.
